


like the elements that know not what nor why

by queerwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Background Character Death, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwatson/pseuds/queerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Sherlock had died, cemeteries had always made John think of her mother’s funeral... John and Sherlock visit a cemetery to pay their respects to a recently deceased client, have some thoughts on death, and get caught in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the elements that know not what nor why

**Author's Note:**

> So a while ago someone on tumblr sent me a prompt they'd gotten from a prompt generator that was "A bouquet of lilies, a rainstorm, a lost shoe, a cemetery, and a cat." The cat remains sort of abstract, but here it is. I've been thinking a lot about post-s3 stuff, too, so that's also here. It's worth mentioning that even though it's not crystal clear in the fic, Mark is the male equivalent of Mary Morstan, and the events of series 3 occurred much the same way in this femlock universe except that John was never pregnant. I hope everything else is clear-ish, and if it's not, I apologize. Title credit to Shakespeare and/or John Fletcher, it's from Emilia's monologue in Act 1 Scene 3 of The Two Noble Kinsmen.

Before Sherlock had died, cemeteries had always made John think of her mother’s funeral - not her father’s, which made her feel a bit guilty, but she’d only come home from Afghanistan briefly to see to everything and then she’d gone right back. Those arrangements had faded amongst more prominent memories of sand and blood and grit. Her mother’s, though, she still remembered clearly. She remembered the thick scent of lilies. She remembered standing between Harry and her father with her hand clutched in Harry’s, grasping tightly in spite of how slippery their palms were with sweat. She remembered the itchy dress she’d had to wear, the only black one she’d had.

It had been more than twenty years now, and it was all still just as easy to picture if she closed her eyes. Her mother’s death had actually changed things for her - it was a turning point, even if most of the emotional impact had faded into something small and manageable.

The fresher association now was with visiting Sherlock’s grave after everything at St. Bart’s, but having Sherlock right next to her again dulled most of that pain. Instead, she could almost feel the itch of that uncomfortable black dress at the back of her neck again when she stepped into the cemetery where they were meant to be paying respects to a client.

They’d only met her once - she was being threatened, and they hadn’t saved her in time. The awful group threatening her had gotten what had been coming to them with no help from Sherlock or John, so that eased everything a bit, but John knew that Sherlock felt guilty. For someone who liked to claim she didn’t feel things that way, Sherlock had a face like an open book sometimes. It was worse since she’d come back from the dead, but even before all of that, John had seen her face when someone died in the course of a case. It weighed heavily on Sherlock when she couldn’t help them, no matter what she tried to say.

The grave was easy to find. June Openshaw. It was still fresh, the gravestone still clean. They hadn’t gone to the funeral, but they were here now, and Sherlock had brought a bouquet of lilies with her. White lilies, just like the ones she and Harry usually took to their mother’s grave.

She watched as Sherlock set down the flowers, and she stepped up beside her, laying a hand softly on her shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, and swallowed. “I do realize I’m not responsible. Theoretically she still should have had time to respond to the group’s threats - I can’t control people like that. They chose to act more quickly because they wanted to kill her and get away, and no one could have stopped them unless they’d been there right at the exact moment they pushed her in the Thames. No one could have anticipated it happening before they’d finished out their own pattern. Still, it seemed appropriate to come and... apologize. As much as one can apologize to a dead body.”

John realized she was gripping the top of Sherlock’s arm too tightly, and she let go, shaking out her hand. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, it’s... pretty difficult to do. Was it... just the flowers, then? That was all you wanted to do before we go?”

All of the obvious tells of her own grief were there, the memories of Sherlock’s death not so faded anymore, and she knew that Sherlock noticed. John wasn’t crying, at least. Thanks to her very stoic father, she’d never been a crier.

Turning to look at her, Sherlock tilted her head and looked apologetic all over again.

“It’s fine,” John said, before she could start. “I will be fine, I just... between what you said and the way I usually feel about cemeteries, it’s just a lot, right now. I’ll be fine once we’re home. I promise.”

Sherlock shook her head. “I’m still sorry. I should have thought of that, how it’d affect you. It just seems so distant now, after everything with...”

Neither of them liked to say Mark’s name. Again, it went unsaid. John just nodded. “Yes, it seemed distant to me, too. Just. Trying to apologize to a dead body was a feeling I knew a little too well.”

“What did you have to apologize for?” The words seemed to have escaped from Sherlock’s mouth without her really having meant for them to, judging by her face. Still, beyond the nonverbal apology, there was a hint of real confusion.

They’d still never had this conversation properly. John swallowed. “I just... When I actually thought you’d jumped off the building, and it was right after we’d had that fight, I felt at least partly responsible. Like I could have said more or done more and stopped you somehow. I knew thinking about it like that only made things worse for myself, but I couldn’t help it. I still thought it.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face was heartbreaking. She knew her own words were sad, maybe a bit pathetic, but it all was made worse by the way Sherlock was looking at her. She flushed a bit and looked down, and there was a moment of sad silence that stretched between them. The words that had gone unspoken for so long seemed to stir up everything else all over again and make them both remember how alone they’d been.

Then, in a completely absurd turn of events, it started to rain. John felt the first few drops on the back of her neck, under her ponytail, and she turned her head up to see, and then it started to pour.

It was impossibly hard rain, sticky and wet, in enormous drops, and the fastest start to a rainstorm that she’d seen since she left Afghanistan. It took her a moment to react, to duck her head towards her shoulders and shout “Shit!” but once she did, she was yanking Sherlock towards a tree to at least get momentary shelter. “Jesus christ that was fast,” she complained. Still the rain was coming down, she could hear the big drops that had collected in the tree hitting her jacket every few seconds, but under the tree was better than out in the middle of it.

She hadn’t looked at Sherlock yet, wiping the rain from her own eyes and shifting her dripping fringe around so she could see.

When she did look up, she couldn’t quite stifle a giggle.

Sherlock looked a bit like a sodden cat, her curls plastered to her face, dragged down against her coat. Everything drooped a bit, her collar and her sleeves and her hair. The corners of her mouth were turned down, but more in a pathetic lost pet sort of way than a genuinely sad one, now.

“I lost a shoe,” she said quietly, blinking rainwater from her eyelashes.

John really did start to laugh then, because she started chuckling and she couldn’t stop. It made sense, of course, that in their run through the suddenly muddy graveyard, one of Sherlock’s heels had gotten caught, and John had kept dragging her unaware, but that didn’t change the fact that it was hilarious. The abrupt change in mood only made everything funnier.

“John, this is hardly funny, I have to get my shoe before we can go home, and I don’t think...” Sherlock was interrupted by her own giggling, and then they were both laughing, leaned against the tree together. John’s head tilted to lean against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock leaned back against her.

As she shook her head, John felt it shift against the fabric of Sherlock’s coat, and she could still feel the warmth of her underneath the sodden wool. “We’ll get your shoe.” Her tone still had a giggle lingering around the edges. “Just... let’s see if the rain lets up a bit. In the meantime, let’s stay here and try not to freeze, yeah?”

“But what about my foot?” Sherlock asked, and she had pulled her lips tight, trying to pout a bit again in spite of her own remaining amusement.

John looked down and saw Sherlock’s bare stockinged foot, and shook her head. “If you were a contortionist I’d say I’d try and help you keep it warm, but I really haven’t got any ideas. Just... wait here.”

Ducking out from under the tree, John ran out and kept her eyes on the ground, and managed to find Sherlock’s shoe and yank it out of the mud. She brought it back and set it down, and leaned herself against the tree again, panting a bit.

“There is your shoe. Enjoy. Now we stay here, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled more softly, and nodded, slipping her foot back into her shoe even though she made a face as she did it. “It’s wet,” she mumbled as she wrinkled her nose.

Snorting, John looked up at her with a raised eyebrow.

The problem, then, of course, was that while overall Sherlock looked a bit like a soaked kitten, the up close details of her in the shade of the tree were still stunningly gorgeous. Her face and John’s were far too close in the limited space under the branches. She could see the raindrops that still clung to Sherlock’s eyelashes, the way the light reflected off the dampened angles of her face, the way a few water droplets still clung to the curves of her lips. Worst of all, there was the way that her already tight and flimsy shirt had gotten damp, and gotten clingy.

John looked away again and sighed, chuckling again, even though it came out awkwardly. “You can change when we get home. We’ll start a fire or something, have some tea or some wine or a hot toddy. Something to warm us up.”

She heard the shifting sounds of wet fabric and assumed that was the sound of Sherlock nodding. “And what about the fact that I’m freezing now?”

Glancing back at Sherlock, John could see she was shivering. “It means you need to take better care of yourself and you’ve got poor circulation, like I’ve tried to tell you, you git.” Still, John reached out and wrapped her arms around Sherlock, under her coat. “Just... c’mere if you don’t mind, that’ll help a bit.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said. It was surprisingly quiet, though. John pulled back enough to look up at her face, and she found Sherlock blushing.

For a long moment John just stared. Sherlock blushing was a gorgeous sight. “You sure?” she asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded.

John put her head back on Sherlock’s chest, then, trying to ignore the fact that she obviously wasn’t wearing anything under her shirt.

“Not to make things serious again, but... About what you said before the rain started...”

“The ridiculous things I said about what it was like when I thought you were dead?” Suddenly John was even more glad to have Sherlock’s heartbeat very nearly under her ear. “We don’t really have to talk about it, you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “But still I... we’ve never talked about any of that. So much of what happened, we just let it all go unspoken. Maybe that was ill-advised. Since you’ve come back to 221b, I think we’ve both done our fair shares of tiptoeing. Perhaps more than.”

Knowing Sherlock could feel it, John shrugged. “I felt like a lot of it didn’t need to be talked about. You know that I... I was terrified of leaving Mark. After what happened. It wasn’t that I forgave him as much as I realized I had to go back to him until I figured out the best way to leave completely because otherwise I was putting you and me at risk. I never forgave him, really, but I think you knew that.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I knew. I still think you shouldn’t have accepted his proposal when you were having so many second thoughts, but I realize you were in a strange and unpleasant situation right before and right after I came back. I don’t resent any of the choices you made. I wish that I’d seen sooner what he really was. If anything most of that is my fault, for turning all that off just because I thought you were happy.”

“I was sort of happy,” John said weakly.

She heard as much as felt Sherlock hum skeptically.

John sighed. “It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t my fault. It was a mix of a lot of terrible things - just like with this client, really.”

Sherlock tensed in her arms, and John rubbed her hands against her back. They both stayed there for a while, quiet, and they listened to the rain. It started to slow down, and after they had both relaxed again, Sherlock nudged at John. “Come on. Back to Baker Street, I think.”

Whatever quiet tension they’d both still been feeling under the tree broke as the walked back out into the rain in their squelching shoes. Only halfway back to the street, the rain picked up again, and they were forced to run and try and flag down a cab, grinning at each other while Sherlock waved an arm around desperately.

Somehow they found someone that agreed to drive them, in spite of the state they were in, and they rode back to Baker Street smiling still. One of them would look over at the other and start laughing, and then they’d both start, and then as soon as they thought they’d both stopped, the cycle would start all over again. Any part of them that had been dried waiting under the tree had gotten soaked through again waiting for the cab, so _both_ of them looked like a pet forced into the bath, John was sure.

They got back to the flat and upstairs quickly, and they went about setting everything up without speaking. John plugged in the kettle and went to change, and when she got back, Sherlock had started the fire and left a towel on her chair.

John made them each a mug of tea and put a bit of whiskey in that she’d found in a cabinet. She handed the second mug to Sherlock, and then she made her way to her chair, picking up the towel and using it to dry her hair a bit. She sat down with a glad sigh, and sitting in her chair across from Sherlock, mug with alcohol included in hand, she was suddenly reminded of her hen do.

The tension from that night, though, would be far more dangerous now that John was back to stay.

“Should we play that silly game with the Rizla papers again?” Sherlock asked. 

John grinned at the fact that Sherlock seemed to have read her mind. “No, no. I think we’re better off not trying that again. Fun as it was, actually.”

She looked at Sherlock, feeling safe and relaxed from the warmth all around her. She noticed that Sherlock seemed to be hiding behind her mug.

“Thought you said that night was awful,” Sherlock muttered. It was an attempt at nonchalance, John could tell.

Her own expression softened. “That was in reference to the part where we both got far too drunk and then had to work a case, where you threw up on a carpet and then later we spent the night in a jail cell. The whole... the whole just us bit, that was good. The best time I’d had in a long time. I really appreciated it. I hadn’t had that much fun in ages.”

Sherlock smiled, and John smiled back. She put her feet on the edge of Sherlock’s chair, causing her another wave of deja vu.

They both sat there for a long time, looking at each other and drinking, and John realized that her mug was empty. She felt pleasantly loose, and she leaned her head back against the chair, slumping in her seat. Shivering in the cold earlier had made her tired all over, but the warmth of the fire and her chair and the whiskey made it more pleasant.

Suddenly Sherlock’s feet were nudging at her legs and she tilted her head back up with a large smile. Sherlock had on an expression of intense focus as she poked at John with her toes, and John moved one foot to block her.

Sherlock looked up at her face, then, and they both started laughing.

After their giggles had died down, they were left with one of Sherlock’s legs in between John’s, and John had one of her legs very nearly wrapped around Sherlock’s other one.

“This is much nicer than your hen do,” Sherlock said.

John hummed. “Well, we’re much less drunk. We haven’t been mixing our alcohols.” Sherlock narrowed her eyes, and John shot her a sheepish smile. “My mistake. Again. But yes, I agree. Much nicer.”

“You’re also not getting married tomorrow.”

She couldn’t stop herself from making a face, and Sherlock seemed pleased by that reaction. “No, you’re right, I am not,” John replied. She nudged Sherlock’s leg with her foot, and they nudged back and forth like that for a few moments, smiling and snickering at each other. “I’m glad I’m not,” John said, after they’d fallen back into silence.

“Mm, I’m glad you’re not, too,” Sherlock said.

They looked at each other again. “I don’t really want to get married at all, I don’t think. I mean not to... I don’t really want to start dating again. You know what I mean?” she admitted quietly.

Sherlock nodded. “You... you came back to stay? I was sort of under that impression.”

“Yeah, yeah. I did. Good. I’m glad you knew.”

Sherlock moved back in her chair, and got up, and John started to frown at her until suddenly Sherlock was in her lap. John wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s waist to help keep her steady, and shifted so they could both fit in the chair.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked.

“No.” She shook her head, too. They were both speaking quietly for some reason, like a loud noise could shatter the moment.

Sherlock put her head on John’s shoulder, and really it felt rather similar to when they’d been standing under the tree earlier, only warmer and drier and much more pleasant. Sherlock just had on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms now, and John could actually feel the shape of her through her clothes. There was no bulky dramatic coat in the way - fond of the coat as John was.

“I wanted to do this, then. That night during the Rizla game. I wanted to do a lot of things.”

John carefully moved a hand into Sherlock’s still-damp curls, and when Sherlock leaned into the touch, John sifted her fingers through the strands without hesitation. “I did, too. I just... I wasn’t sure. I’m still not sure. Are you...”

“I... I haven’t done much of anything like this since University, but I do... I mean I am... capable. Of things.”

“I mean, do you...” John realized how vulnerable Sherlock had already made herself. “I love you. And I have. Since before... Before everything. How do you feel?”

Sherlock lifted her head, and John saw a heartbreaking expression on her face for the second time that day. It was different this time, less pitying, but John could see the same tremble in her lips. “I... Yes. I love you, too. Are you... You’re certain?”

John smiled at her. “Yes. Yes, of course I’m certain.” Her thumb was shifting back and forth at the curls right behind Sherlock’s ear, and she was rubbing at Sherlock’s back, too, holding her tucked close.

They made eye contact, and haltingly they both leaned in. It was as if they thought they’d be stopped by something, after all this time of interruptions and obstacles. Instead, John finally pushed through the final inch or so of space and pressed her lips against Sherlock’s.

Her lips were as soft and full as they had always looked, and their first kiss was a simple, gentle press. Then John pulled back and pressed forward again and she kissed just Sherlock’s bottom lip, pulling it between her own for a moment and then letting it slip away again with a quiet smacking sound. They both started to smile, and took little tastes of each other’s mouths, back and forth, until their lips were tingling and damp.

Once they seemed to have agreed on an unspoken break, John tilted her forehead against Sherlock’s and tightened her arms around her waist to hold her even closer. “I love you,” she said again.

“I love you, too.”

It was almost too hot now in front of the fire and curled up so close with Sherlock, but John wouldn’t have been pried out of her chair by anyone or anything in that moment. Instead, she shifted her face further down and sighed against Sherlock’s neck, and basked in the heat even as it started to stick, glad to be too warm after the earlier cold.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering, the case of June Openshaw is blatantly apprehended from The Five Orange Pips.


End file.
